All I Can Do
by Skalidra
Summary: When Zarkon's forces arrive at Earth, there's no warning. Shiro never escapes Galra custody, Lance never finds the Blue Lion, and the Galra find and take exactly what they want; the Lion, it's semi-crazy boy defender, and a collection of prisoners from the nearby Garrison. Shiro does the best he can to save the one person he can from getting put into the arena with him. Keith.


Sheith week! Let's get this started! (And again, here I come for a brand new pairing with a whole week of it. Is this a thing now?) So let's start this week off with some _angst_ , specifically of the, 'Shiro never escaped' variety. (I mean, the prompt for the day was 'Hurt/Comfort' so like... what were you expecting me to write?)

To clarify, this is an AU where Shiro never escaped Zarkon. The Galra still come to Earth, searching for the Blue Lion, and without the intervention of the main-character-squad there's no real defense against the ship that comes. (I did consider writing more of this, and I may at some point, but I mean... it would just be pain. So much pain.) Enjoy!

 **Warnings** for: Elements of dehumanization, referenced/implied torture, some creepy-rapist implications about Zarkon, branding, and not-pleasant ownership.

* * *

Zarkon's hand always feels enormously big as it skims across his back, fingertips tracing the length and angles of scars his captor — owner, _master_ — already knows by heart. Zarkon is there each time he gains a new one anyway, to examine it and decide if it's one that he'll be allowed to keep, or whether it will be wiped from his skin. There aren't many that Zarkon has cared enough about to heal. The line seems to come when they do actual damage to him, since both wounds were long, ragged gashes that threatened his mobility. The rest he still bears; marks of every time he's let one of the other gladiators slip through his guard.

At least, that's where most of them have come from.

Zarkon's hand shifts up, tracing down his shoulder to where the Galra arm is grafted to him, metal plating obscuring the actual scars where the join is. He can't help but shiver, a sharp _pang_ of fear slicing down his spine. He has to fight not to activate the weapon, but despite his best efforts there's still a faint hum, and a soft violet light from the center of his palm.

He keeps his thoughts carefully controlled, feeling the heat of it burn at his bare thigh and using the threat of pain to ground himself. He's tasted the Galra's built-in shock collar for the arm before; he doesn't want to taste it again.

It fades away, deactivating, and Zarkon gives a rumbling chuckle from behind him. "Still frightened of me, Champion?"

"Shouldn't I be?" he asks, keeping himself still even as Zarkon's fingers leave him. He isn't released until he's told he can go, and until then he'll sit still and allow whatever Zarkon wants. Not that there's a real choice.

The little hum from behind him tells him that Zarkon likes his answer, and so does the passing drift of fingers across his scalp. "One of my ships is arriving from your home planet tomorrow," he's told instead. "Earth, isn't it?"

Reward; information in response to his obedience and deference. He's played this game before.

"Yes, Emperor Zarkon," he answers dutifully. "Did you get what you wanted from it?"

"I did," his master confirms, footsteps telling him that Zarkon is moving away from him. "The Blue Lion, and a selection of slaves from the dwellings near where my ship followed the energy signature." His stomach turns. "Perhaps others of your race will prove as interesting as you."

He should offer something, he should _say_ something, but he just can't. The thought of other humans being subjected to… to all of _this_ just sickens him, _scares_ him. He's not naïve enough to think that none of them will be sacrificed to the arena, and he knows some of how Zarkon's mind works by now. He'll be forced to kill some of them, just like he was forced to kill some of the helpless alien slaves he used to know.

Zarkon likes finding new ways to break his morals. And him.

The footsteps return, coming to his back again, and he hears the quiet click and then hum of a Galra energy blade. It's only practice that lets him stay utterly still instead of flinching. "Many of them seem relatively young, by your species' standards," Zarkon continues, obviously prompted by the fact he hasn't responded yet.

He can't help it. He shouldn't, but he turns his head, looks up and _up_ and asks, "Children?"

He hasn't kept the horrified tinge out of his voice, he knows that even before Zarkon's slow smirk. A low rumble, a warning sound at odds with the clear amusement, and he dips his gaze before turning his head forward again. Large fingers push his head down a little further, and he winces but doesn't complain at the drag of the blade up the back of his head. It doesn't actually hurt — Zarkon's too good with a blade for it to hurt if he didn't want it to — but it's still uncomfortable to have a blade held by someone else on his skin, even if all it's actually doing is shaving the bits of his undercut he can't reach.

"No," Zarkon grants. "Late juveniles; those who have just entered adulthood according to your society. There was an academy of sorts beside where the Blue Lion was hidden; those who ran it attempted to resist my troops, but proved little match. The prisoners interrogated informed my commander that the place was called 'Garrison.' It matches some of what the Druids gathered from your mind in their initial investigation; do you know of it?"

His chest tightens, and for a long few moments he can barely breathe. Garrison? What are the chances? Who was killed in the attack? Who was _taken?_ Students, by the age range Zarkon described, but…

"Yes," he forces himself to answer. Then, hoping for more specific information in trade, offers, "Garrison is a military space exploration academy that trains pilots, engineers, and scientists. They only accept the best students from all over our world. I was trained there, and stationed there before they sent me to Kerberos."

Another rasp of the blade against his skin. "Are you going to plead for their lives?" Zarkon asks, voice sounding like the thought amuses him.

He knows better.

"No. Nothing I can say will change whatever your plans are for them."

A second pleased hum. "The ones that are stronger will be tested in the arena. Those that are weaker will be sent to work camps, or sold to the highest bidders. Since your rise, humans are becoming desirable pets for the wealthier classes. This shipment should satisfy that need."

It's _not his fault_. That's something he needs to remember. He's done what he's had to, to survive, and Zarkon's empire already knew about Earth. Even if he'd died in that first fight, or if he'd refused to show obedience to Zarkon and been executed, humans would have been dragged into this eventually. Maybe it's even better that he's proven that humans can be desirable; he's never seen the work camps but he can't imagine… They _can't_ be good.

His victories have given him a better life than most other slaves. His own room, clothes that aren't just the Galra's slave uniforms, food that has a measure of actual flavor to it, and safety from the abuse of the soldiers and commanders. But that safety comes at the cost of being _Zarkon's_ , in any and every way his new master decides. If he knew the cost, he might not have made that bargain in the first place.

He shivers again, and Zarkon manually tilts his head to the side to bare his throat and the side of his head. "Are you well known among your species?"

He considers that for a moment, and then carefully answers, "The people you took from Garrison will know me. Most others probably won't; not by name or on sight."

Zarkon tilts his head to the other side to finish the last of the shaving, then pulls the blade away and lets him go. "You'll accompany me as my commander reports his victory," comes the order, voice quiet but no less commanding. "Tomorrow, you will fight for me, and show the rest of your race what obedience could earn them."

"As you wish," is all he dares to say.

There is no 'what they could earn,' but he's not going to say anything about that. Technically, there is a slim possibility that someone can rise from the ranks of the gladiators to be one of Zarkon's commanders; he's met the success story that came just before him, a furred Galra with — it wasn't a surprise so much as a sickening lurch, like being punched in the gut — a prosthetic arm. Yes, it's possible to get out of the arena if you prove yourself dangerous and loyal enough, like _Commander_ Sendak, but doing that requires being Zarkon's, and he wouldn't wish that on anyone else. If it's the path he's on, then…

Well, he still almost hopes that someday one of the other gladiators is going to be good enough to kill him. It makes him sound like a Galra, and that _scares_ him on a level he can't look too closely at, but at least a death in the arena would leave him with his pride. Not like this slow crawl towards losing himself, where every time he thinks he's found a line he won't cross, Zarkon finds a way to push him past it.

"Get dressed," Zarkon orders. "One of the guards will escort you to the command center when you're finished." A last brush of fingers over the back of his neck as Zarkon sweeps past, cape sweeping over his shoulder and thigh on the way. "Don't linger, Champion."

He doesn't answer; it's not expected. Zarkon's gone by the time he's slipped off the high stool, and he takes in a single, deep breath to steady himself before he moves to the closet built into the wall of his room. At first, he'd had the foolish thought that having his own space meant that he was safe inside of it, and that Zarkon wouldn't deign to come to a slave's room. It was a stupid theory; there's no such thing as a safe place inside Zarkon's empire. Or at the very least, not on his ships or his space centers. He never should have had to learn that the hard way.

The slave uniform is gone now; as a Champion he's expected to look better than that. Only somewhat though, since he _is_ still a slave and has to be recognizable as one. He's been given a skintight black shirt that's not all that different from the undersuit of the slave uniform, but is lopsided to account for his new arm. It ends just slightly over the beginning of his metal arm on his right side, but cuts off at his shoulder on the left. For his bare arm he has overlapping, black and dark purple pieces of something-like-leather armor that cover him from wrist to midway up his bicep. His hand is 'protected' by a fingerless, black glove that feels painfully familiar on the best days. He's pretty sure the Druids pulled the design straight from his head, because he hasn't seen any Galra with the same style. It's only real function is to give him a little bit better of a grip on whatever secondary weapon he's given.

The skintight black pants are the same style as his shirt, and there are more of the overlapping armor plates on the front of his thighs and calves, both of which strap into place with some sort of magnetic clasp. He doesn't quite understand how it works, but he knows they don't slip once they're on and really, that's the part that's important to him. The boots are closer to a human style, but made of that same almost-leather like substance that somehow manages to be sturdy and flexible at the same time.

The last piece of the whole thing is a piece of the armor that secures over his back, straps looping over his shoulders and crossing across his chest. Emblazoned on the back is a glowing, purple Galra emblem. He doesn't know if it's the symbol of the empire, or a specific word, and honestly he's never asked. He doesn't want to know.

Another steadying breath, pushing away any thoughts about the Garrison prisoners and what might — _will_ — happen to them. He straightens his back, breathes out, and walks out of the room. One of the drone guards is standing outside, left there to make sure that he doesn't wander the ship without permission, and it steps up beside him as the door closes. There aren't any words; it merely presses a hand to his low back and pushes him forward. He knows the pace of the guards by now, every mechanical inch of them, so it's easy to walk at just the right speed to keep the hand on his back from shoving him ahead, or grabbing him to force him to slow down.

Practice makes perfect, right?

The walk to the command center feels longer than it actually is, but every solitary walk he makes feels that way. The Galra corridors tend to look very similar, and he's still not the best at distinguishing what the writing on the signs or doors says. He knows the paths to most of the places he's allowed or supposed to be, but the rest of the station is a bit of a mystery. He's trying to learn it but it's… not going as well as he'd like. Maybe if he ever got back out on a ship he could escape from one of those, but Zarkon keeps him too close for that to happen.

The guard stops at the door, and he raises his own Galra hand to press against the panel beside it and open the door. His hand glows faintly, and the door rushes open with a whoosh of air. Zarkon is in his throne, and he bows his head that direction before quietly slipping to the side, behind and then apart from the other gathered commanders that happen to be on the station currently. He might be Zarkon's pet, but that's the only reason he's allowed here. He doesn't have the right to be at Zarkon's side unless that's where he's ordered to be. Until then his place is against the wall, visible if Zarkon wants him but out of sight and mind otherwise. Alone, because he doesn't belong among the commanders either. He's not Galra.

Zarkon tracks him for a moment, then shifts focus back to the commander standing in the center of the room, arms clasped behind his back. He tunes into the report being given, the recounting of how the Blue Lion was found, dug up, and transported back. He glances briefly around the room as he listens, and his gaze catches on one abnormality in the otherwise familiar room. A figure kneeling between two of the drone guards; slave uniform, arms bound behind its back. Most of it is obscured from this angle, behind the legs of the guards, but he can see enough of it to guess that it's a human, or at least something very human shaped and sized.

He pulls his gaze away before anyone can catch him looking, raising it back up to the commander. He doesn't know this one's name, but he recognizes him; it's the same Galra that originally captured him and his crew. The one in charge of the exploratory slaving ship assigned to the sector that includes Earth.

The report is dull — self-congratulatory, frankly — but he listens to it anyway. He tries to keep his reactions off of his face, listening to the numbers of prisoners taken and combatants killed. He can't afford to show weakness; if it's noted that he appeared to care about something, it _will_ be used against him. Zarkon's already going to use the slaves taken against him, just because they're human too, and he doesn't need to add anything more to that.

"—and I have a gift, Emperor Zarkon."

He snaps to full attention, watching carefully as the commander beckons forward the two guards and their slave. It fights their hold, jerks against the unforgiving metal grip, and he catches a flash of pale skin and dark hair as it's dragged up next to the commander and then shoved back down. The drones shift back, and the commander steps to the side and grabs a handful of the black hair to wrench its head up. His breath catches _hard_ , and he prays in the next second that no one saw.

The dark purple eyes glaring upwards, the white teeth clenched around a thick, metal gag, the black hair… It's _Keith_.

"This human tried to defend the Blue Lion from us," the commander says, sounding smug. "He managed to damage several of the drones before he was subdued, which is more than most of his kind managed. I think he'll make an excellent candidate for the arena."

Zarkon looks down at Keith, and he can see the spark of interest, can see that little twitch of amusement that means that the commander is absolutely right. Spirit appeals to Zarkon, and Keith… Keith was _always_ spirited. God, he _can't_ —

"Emperor Zarkon!" he calls, unable to stand by and watch his... Watch _anyone_ get condemned to the arena.

Keith's head _snaps_ around, eyes widening, at the sound of his voice, and suddenly every eye in the room is on him. He very carefully swallows his nerves away and steps forward; it's way too late to back out now. No matter how he wants to look at Keith, he keeps his gaze on Zarkon, lowering it respectfully as he takes several steps forward and _doesn't_ let his gaze move from its fixed spot at Zarkon's feet. At least until he raises his head again, and meets Zarkon's eyes as steadily as he can manage.

"I know I'm speaking out of turn," he starts, "but I have a request if you'll permit me to ask it, Master."

A long moment of silence, and then Zarkon's head just barely shifts. "Ask, Champion."

He raises a hand to indicate Keith, _doesn't_ look. "This slave was mine back on Earth, Emperor Zarkon. I ask permission to take him as mine again."

He can hear the sharp murmurs of displeasure from the group of commanders behind him, _feel_ the glare of the one still holding Keith's head up, but he makes himself stay still and steady. They don't matter. The only opinion that does is Zarkon's, and he's not under the impression that he'll actually fool Zarkon into thinking he's not nervous, but the stronger he looks, the more likely Zarkon is to give him what he wants. It's appearances, it's roles. He's Zarkon's pet, and if he's not behaving obediently then he'd better at least not show how scared he is about it. He's a _Champion_. He's _the_ Champion.

"You know that anything that is yours is mine as well?"

"Yes," and that scares the _hell_ out of him to think about but it's still better than Keith being put in the arena, or being owned directly by Zarkon.

Zarkon stays silent for another few moments, and then gives a more obvious nod. "Granted. He's yours, Champion. You know our ways; claim him."

He can't help the twitch of his right arm at the reminder, but he manages to say, "Thank you, Master," even as his mind scrambles to think of a way he can do this without actually hurting Keith too badly. He didn't think this far ahead. He didn't think ahead at all, actually.

It's Galra custom. If you own someone they have to be marked as yours.

He turns to Keith, and the commander holding him lets go with a disgusted sneer. Keith is staring up at him, disbelieving, shocked, and he _wants_ to sink down on his knees and promise everything's going to be alright, but he can't. Even if it were remotely true, he can't show that kind of weakness in front of any of the Galra. They'll tear him apart for it. They'll tear _Keith_ apart for it.

So he keeps his face hard, thinks about weapons and placement as he steps around to Keith's back and reaches down, grabbing the back of his neck with his flesh hand and ripping the slave uniform open with the Galra one. It tears easily enough under the strength of his metal fingers, but he gets a muffled sound of protest from Keith. He pushes that thought aside, just in time for it to occur to him that his Galra hand, it… it _burns_. That's— That's better than cutting, isn't it? Faster, and less likely to get messed up.

At least he won't have to take a blade from one of the commanders.

Keith's back is already partially bare, so he swallows away nerves and drops to his knees behind him, letting go of his neck so he can wrap his arm around Keith's chest instead. He almost whispers an, ' _I'm sorry_ ,' but he bites his tongue not to; there's too much at stake for him to blow it with one bit of kindness. Everyone is watching. Keith is stiff and still, heartbeat pounding against his arm, and he holds his metal hand back and out of sight as he activates the weaponry in it. He can feel its heat in the nerves left to him, like sitting next to an almost-too-hot campfire, and he knows he's risking hesitating too long so he forces himself to bring his hand forward and push the violet glow of it right between Keith's shoulder blades.

For a fraction of a second there's just the sickening sizzle of flesh in his ears, and the feedback of Keith's back against his Galra hand. Then Keith _screams_.

Keith tries to get away, jerking forwards instinctively, but he's set it up so Keith's pinned between the press of his hand and the strength of his other arm and doesn't go anywhere, despite his struggling. The scent of burned flesh reaches his nose. He lets go.

His hand comes away from Keith's back with a terrible sucking sound, and he has to fight not to visibly gag as his stomach roils, taking sharp breaths in through a barely parted mouth as Keith collapses to the floor. The handprint between his shoulders is clear, and even as the shame and the _guilt_ takes vicious hold in his chest, a part of him relaxes. Keith is claimed as his. No other Galra but Zarkon himself can touch him without permission. He's as safe as he'll ever get in this place.

He stays kneeling as he looks up at Zarkon, who has a thin smirk curving his mouth. "May I take him to be treated, Master?" he asks, praying the answer is yes. He doesn't want to say it — he will if he has to — but he's afraid that Keith will settle into shock if he's not taken to one of the medics soon. Burns put people into shock _fast_. The Galra don't have the same symptoms for it, and he almost died when Zarkon took his arm because it wasn't recognized.

He doesn't want to even chance it with Keith.

Zarkon flicks one hand in dismissal. "You may. Go, Champion."

He bows his head in gratitude, and then shifts and gathers Keith so he can carry him over one shoulder. The commanders part reluctantly, but none of them actually stop him from leaving the room. His shoulders ease just a fraction once it closes, and he turns to the drone still lingering outside to say, "Medic," so he's not stopped. This time, the guard only follows him, instead of manually guiding him with a hand at his back.

He has to assume it's because he's carrying someone else, because the guards have always manually taken him wherever he's going. It's a weirdly nice kind of freedom, even with all the rest of the terrible things going on in his head.

He can feel Keith's heartbeat pounding through his shoulder, can feel the rapid pace of his breathing. He bites his tongue again so he doesn't try and comfort him.

The medic on duty gives him a sharp look as he comes in, but it softens a bit when the guard steps in beside him and shifts to stand next to the door. The yellow gaze flickers from him and then to Keith. He steps forward and carefully eases Keith down onto the examination table in the center of the room, laying him down on his side and carefully off of his wounded back. His hands shake for a second at the _memories_ of being on that table, and the pain and the humiliation of what's been done to him on it, but he shoves them away to a corner of his head with all the other nasty flashbacks. The corner holding 'things to deal with at any time that's not _now_.'

"Meant to scar, I assume?" the Galra medic says, coming forward and much less carefully pushing Keith mostly onto his stomach by one shoulder.

"Yes, sir," he answers, fighting his own instincts as he steps back and makes room.

The medic looks from the wound to his hand, but if he matches the size of the burn to his arm he doesn't comment. "Keep it still."

Even though he doesn't think Keith is likely to struggle at this point, he doesn't argue. The order lets him circle the table and grip Keith's shoulder and hip, and get a look at his face. His forehead is braced against the table, eyes open but glazed, breath coming in pants around the gag. Another surge of guilt crashes into him, and he swallows and carefully squeezes Keith's shoulder with as much care as he can manage. Keith's gaze rises, finding his chest first and then lifting to his face. A moment later the medic sprays on one of their disinfectants and he tightens his grip as Keith _jerks_ , giving a muffled cry of pain.

There's very little care in the way that the medic presses one of the self-sealing bandage pads to Keith's back, but he bites his tongue and doesn't say anything about it, or about the dismissive flick of fingers as the medic steps away.

"You know the protocol for aftercare of injuries, Champion," the medic says, over one shoulder. "If it doesn't heal as expected bring the slave back."

He should offer a 'thank you,' he really should, but there's a low coil of anger in his gut and he doesn't trust his voice to come out even. Instead he carefully picks Keith up off the table, lifting him into a bridal carry instead of draping him over one shoulder. It puts Keith's head at his shoulder, and he does his best not to look down into the eyes looking up at him as he leaves the room, and the guard steps back into place at his back. He doesn't offer where he's going, but somehow the guard doesn't stop him anyway. Maybe it recognizes the path he's taking back to his room; he's certainly made this particular walk enough times.

Stepping into the relative privacy of his room is a relief, and the moment the doors are shut he turns his head to meet Keith's gaze. "I'm sorry," he whispers, biting down on everything else he wants to say just to get out, " _God_ , Keith, I'm so sorry. There wasn't—"

Keith shivers, and he forces himself to shut up, to move forward and lay Keith out on the bed, then reach up to find the catch for the gag. Keith shies away from his Galra hand and it freezes him in place for a second, before he can manage to catch his breath and shake away the shame.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, as he finds the clasp and unhooks it, pulling the gag from between Keith's teeth.

Keith takes in a deeper breath, tongue wetting his lips. "Shiro?" His voice is weak, rough, but it's still unmistakably Keith's and the relief is sharp and sudden.

He manages something that probably doesn't look that much like a real smile, and carefully turns his body as he kneels beside the bed so that his Galra arm is hidden behind the bulk of the rest of him. "Hey," he murmurs. "Are you…? Are you alright?"

A harder shudder, followed by a wince, and then Keith draws away, pushing up and getting to sitting despite his bound arms. "The— The mission; they said it was pilot error. _Bullshit_ , pilot error. You've— Have you been here the whole time?"

He stays kneeling, watching Keith's gaze flick around the room. "Yes," he answers, simply. Then, when Keith shifts uncomfortably, wrists twisting against the cuffs, he rises up on his knees. "I can get those off. If you can… If you can trust me." He brings his Galra hand forward, and Keith focuses on it, eyes widening slightly.

"What _is_ that?" Keith asks, sounding a little horrified. "What—?" A swallow, and then a sharper look. "How does that help?"

He winces. "I— I can get you out of the cuffs, alright?" He activates the arm, carefully holding it up and away from him. Keith's eyes widen at the purple glow. "I can cut through the metal. You're going to have to trust me though, because it's going to be hot, and—"

"That's what you used— You _branded_ me." Keith stares at him, realization in his voice and his gaze, mixed right alongside incredulity. "You…" Keith's voice dies out, and then quietly, almost desperately, he says, "Shiro?"

"I'm _sorry_ ," he repeats, helplessly. "I'm trying to protect you, Keith, I _swear_. This is—" He has to swallow, has to stop himself from clutching at his arm. "This is better than what Zarkon had planned. _Please_ , trust me on that. I knew what was going to happen to you and I just couldn't—" He grasps for words, and then gives into the urge to wrap his arm around his chest and lower his head, digging his fingers into the metal of his Galra arm. "I couldn't let him do to you what he did to me. This won't… It won't protect you from all of it, but it will protect you from some of it."

When he looks up Keith is staring at his arm, and then those eyes rise, focusing on the scar across his face instead, and then up even further on the shock of white in his hair. "What did you do?"

"I marked you as mine," he says, trying to ignore the way his stomach feels like it's curdling. "It's Galra custom; if someone belongs to you they have to be marked as yours. The only Galra that can touch you now is Zarkon, and you won't be sent to a work camp, or the arena, or sold to some high-ranking Galra officer. It was the only way I could think of."

Keith shivers, shoulders curling in and arms tugging against the cuffs again. "And what are you? Are you one of them now?"

" _No_ ," he breathes. " _No_ , I'm… I'm still a slave. I'm a gladiator; the current Champion."

"Doesn't seem so bad," Keith comments, glancing around the room again.

His mouth parts on an instant denial, before he carefully closes it again, chewing over the words in his head. Finally, he admits, "Compared to a lot of other slaves, it's not. But, tomorrow I'm set to fight, as a demonstration to the human prisoners brought in today. I haven't been told, but I _know_ that at some point during it they'll bring humans in, and I'll be expected to kill them. Or execute them." He lets out a shaking breath, and meets Keith's gaze as steadily as he can. "And I'll do it, because the last time I refused to kill someone I'd been told to, Zarkon killed a slave at the start of every single day I refused him, and left me a scar to remember the count by."

Keith's expression reads horror again, and he understands it. The memory of it still hurts, and every time he glimpses the neat, counted lines on the outside of his left thigh, he remembers all of it over again.

"It's not worth it," he whispers. "He's… He's got a cruel mind and hundreds of years of experience and I… I _can't win_."

He doesn't realize he's dipped his head until Keith is pleading, " _Shiro_."

He looks up, in time to watch Keith turn, offering the length of his back and cuffed arms. He takes the movement as the tentative gift it is, and cautiously pushes himself off the floor so he can sit down next to Keith on the actual bed. The thought of letting his hand slip at all scares him, but he forces it away and very, _very_ carefully activates his hand so he can cut through the connecting bar holding the cuffs together. It shears apart easily enough. He'd like to get them off of Keith's wrists too, but he doesn't trust his hand with that kind of precision.

Keith's shoulders roll forward, arms following suit, but there's also a sharp gasp of pain. Before he can think about it he's pressing closer, looping his flesh arm around Keith's waist and pressing close, offering support against what he's inflicted.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, against Keith's hair.

There's a moment of silence, and tension, and then Keith eases into his grip. "You did what you had to. No good options; I get it."

And a large part of him relaxes into relief. If Keith had hated him, or feared him… He's not sure he could have lived with himself.

"Thank you," he breathes back, and then promises, "I'll do whatever I can to protect you. I swear."


End file.
